Elevator Love Letter
by kmh11
Summary: Modern AU in which Mary is the rising star at one of London's most elite fashion houses and Matthew is a newly hired junior executive in the legal department.
1. Enterprise and Meeting Eyes

_Author's Note: I won't take up too much of your time here, but I have to say a tremendous thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to publish this story. It's a big step outside of my comfort zone, but I'm so excited to finally share it. The title comes from the Stars song of the same name, which gave me a bit of inspiration for this concept (if you have never heard it, I highly recommend it, but it's not strictly necessary). And of course the biggest thank you of all goes out to La Donna Ingenua, who is not only a phenomenal author, but also a Beta extraordinaire. Seriously, she's the best. _

* * *

_**9:39 PM**_  
The fluorescent bulbs above her head are buzzing louder than usual, although she realizes that it probably only seems that way because of the near silence in the office around her. As the heat clicks on once again, filling the room with stale warm air, she releases a deep sigh and presses her fingers to her temples. Her head is pounding, and her legs ache; she flexes her feet, which are resting very unprofessionally on top of her desk—her sky high Laboutin heels shed long ago. She should have gone home hours ago, like the rest of the work force, but late nights have become de rigueur for Mary Crawley. Besides, she didn't become the Director of Marketing and Development at one of London's most successful fashion houses by being just like everyone else.

_Mary's life was never destined to be ordinary._ _From the time she was born her father told her that their family was special, but it was a fact that she did not appreciate fully until her grandfather died; she was just ten years old. _

_Tall and slim, with eyes as blue as the sky, Walter Crawley was a man who had always done precisely the opposite of what anyone expected of him. In addition to being the reluctant seventh Earl of Grantham, he was also the sole owner of Downton Textile Works—a sleepy little factory that he purchased on a whim, for practically nothing, after the Second World War and turned into an enterprise more successful than anyone could have imagined. While his title could only be passed to a male heir, upon his death the shares of the textile factory were split 50/50 between his son and his daughter. Robert, a commercial real estate broker, liquidated his half of the shares and poured the money into his firm—Crawley Investment Group. Rosamond, his free spirited younger sister, surprised everyone by taking an active role in the running of the company, beginning with the image overhaul and eventual transition from textiles to high fashion. She moved headquarters from the old factory in Yorkshire to a sleek, modern building in London and began to climb her way up from the very bottom, not unlike her father had done before her. _

_It wasn't an easy world to break into, but she had a lot going for her. She was savvy enough to operate the business, connected enough to get recognized, and just arrogant enough to believe that she was going to be successful. It wasn't long before the Grantham label was dubbed the one to watch. Run by a "rogue aristocrat" (as the tabs called her) and staffed by a team of complete unknowns, Grantham was turning heads before they had even completed their first collection. _

_As a child, Mary had always thought her aunt to be a bit strange. With her untamable red curls and her hemlines just a bit too high, she never quite seemed to fit the Crawley mold. She was married and widowed before thirty, making her equal parts lonely and wealthy. She dated a string of unsuitable men (as Granny put it), and she never seemed to be able to sit still for very long. Her father often referred to his sister as a Hedonist, and to a young Mary, that seemed as much an insult as anything. _

_But after her grandfather's death, Mary found herself growing to admire her aunt more and more. She played by her own rules, which was something that Mary envied greatly; something that she wished she could do as well. The Grantham building became a refuge for her when nothing in her young life seemed to be going right-when there was no one else for her to talk to, and nowhere that felt like home. _

_When she was thirteen, her sister Edith–ten–and Sybil just five, their parent's filed for divorce. It was early in September when Robert was caught shagging one of the filing clerks at his firm, and Cora soundly refused to forgive him for his indiscretion. For the first winter post-split, the girls were shuffled back and forth between the posh townhome where they grew up in Belgravia to their father's new ostentatious penthouse apartment in Kensington. The divorce was finally settled in February, and within a month of the final paperwork being signed, Robert was remarried. Cora, embarrassed and devastated, moved back to America and the girls moved in full-time with their father and Jane, who, as it turned out, was more than just a one-time fling. She had an insufferable habit of referring to Mary and her sisters as "her lovely girls", which never failed to make Mary feel ill. In the beginning Jane tried hard-too hard-to earn their affection, always buying gifts and bending rules. But it wasn't long before she realized that despite her best efforts, she and the Crawley girls weren't destined to be very good friends._

_She had a son of her own, Freddy, from a previous marriage, which meant that the girls now had a little brother. Since Freddy's father had passed away not long after he was born, Robert agreed to adopt the boy shortly after the wedding. And so he became Frederick Moorsum Crawley—the son Robert had always wanted, but never had. He was meek and charming as a three year old—polite and unassuming—with an insatiable sweet-tooth and a smile that lit up his whole face. But that sweet little boy was long gone, and now at seventeen, he set Mary's teeth on edge. He was spoiled and entitled in a way that the girls never were, and cunning enough to cause all sorts of trouble and skirt all of the consequences. As far as Robert and Jane were concerned, he could do no wrong. _

_**10:15 PM**_  
Mary doesn't remember falling asleep, but when her mobile sounds, it startles her back into consciousness. Her computer monitor has gone into hibernation, and there is a rather undignified spot of drool on her desk, which she quickly grabs a tissue to wipe it away. She stares at the screen of her mobile for a few seconds, blinking at the brightness of its light, before the words register in her mind.

**Anna Smith:** _You better not still be at the office. _

She knows Anna's disapproving glare so well that she can see it through the text message. They have known each other since they were teenagers, when Anna turned what was supposed to be a part-time summer job at Mary's father's real estate firm into an internship for university credit, into a salaried position upon graduation. Anna is now the Senior Property Manager for some of CIG's largest corporate clients. After getting over their initial misgivings of one another (spoiled rich girl with everything handed to her on a silver platter/pretentious suck-up with a working class background and a chip on her shoulder), they found that they rather liked each other. They bonded over their shared drive and ambition, and rallied together against those who doubted them because of their age or their gender.

Smiling, Mary reaches for her phone to respond: _You're only bothering me because you've just left your office, haven't you? _Leaning back in her chair, she stretches her arms above her head, several joints popping as her muscles extend.

**Anna Smith: **_Fair enough, you caught me. Meet up for a drink?_

Checking the time, Mary decides against it: _Better not—early day tomorrow. How about lunch?_

**Anna Smith: **_All of our days seem to be early ones. Can't do lunch though; I've got a meeting with your father._

Mary can't help rolling her eyes: _Of course you do. When are we going to learn to have lives?_

**Anna Smith: **_When we take over the world?_

Mary laughs out loud, the sound echoing through her quiet office as she taps out her response: _Right you are. Well, have a good night then. I promise we'll get together soon._

**Anna Smith:** _Goodnight. And go home! _

Sighing, Mary pulls her feet down off of her desk. Her back is stiff from sleeping hunched over, and her legs are uncomfortably stuck to the leather seat of her chair. As she stands to smooth down the front of her skirt, her stomach grumbles loudly, and she realizes that she is ravenous.

She shuts off her computer and gathers her things, slipping her heels back on her feet, groaning as her toes protest against their confinement. It is a routine conducted so frequently that she is operating on auto-pilot. _Shoes on, lights off, bag slung over shoulder, door closed, keys out._She doesn't notice the light coming from the office on the other side of the floor, and she practically walks right into someone she does not recognize. Wracking her brain for a moment, she recalls that they've just taken on someone new in the legal department. Another Crawley oddly enough, apparently of no relation; she can't believe that she's forgotten he was meant to start today. She knows she should speak up and introduce herself, but they are in front of the lift now and both step forward at the same time. His hand reaches out to push the button to summon the lift before she has the chance, and her arm drops awkwardly at her side. They only wait a moment before it arrives, its doors opening with a soft ping.

He moves to take a step, but hesitates as he sees her do the same. She can't help but smile as he awkwardly gestures for her to go first. She pushes the button for the lobby as he moves to stand to her left.

For some reason, her first thought is that he seems taller than she had imagined him. _And rather more attractive than anyone in the legal department needs to be_. For a moment, they are quiet; neither of them are quite sure what to say. The proper amount of time in which to make an introduction has long passed, and the air around them feels charged with all of the words unspoken.

"You must be the long lost heir," Mary says, an edge of mockery in her tone.

"Bloody hell, the jokes made it all the way to the top on the first day?" He looks at her and smiles tightly, running his fingers through his hair.

She can't help but smile back at him. "They've been teasing you, then?" Her eyebrows quirk in anticipation of his response.

"Yes. They seem to think that I'm here because of nepotism, not because I have any real talent. Of course they might be right about the talent bit, so I didn't even bother trying to deny a family connection. Might come in handy…" He sputters off, as if realizing the utter idiocy of what he's just said.

She looks at him curiously, but says nothing. He appears to be nervous; she notices the small beads of perspiration starting to form around his neck, and he tugs at his collar trying to let in some air. They are locked in a strange sort of battle-she is observing him, and he is trying his best _not_to observe her. After moments that feel like years, her eyes leave his and focus on the panel in front of her.

"I'm not really on top, you know. My aunt Rosamond is still in charge of things." She's not quite sure why she feels the need to make the distinction to him.

"That's not what I've heard." He says it quickly, and looks as if he regrets it immediately.

They both look up suddenly as the lift reaches the ground floor, the door opening with another ping. They move to exit at the same time, their arms brushing together as they pass. The simple touch feels like a shock of electricity and they both gaze down to where their limbs had briefly connected, and then up to each other's eyes, turning away again just as quickly. It is an odd feeling, and more than a little disconcerting in Mary's opinion.

_For as successful as she's been professionally, her love life has left much to be desired. She had been with one serious boyfriend at university; he was her first love, her first sex, and her first broken heart. A tall, handsome flanker on the rugby team, he was every bit as popular as she was. A bit too popular, it turned out; she came home early from a weekend away to find him and her roommate in the throes. She was understandably shattered by the incident, but she did everything in her power to make it appear that she was unaffected. The only person she told was her mother, because she was the only one who she knew would truly understand. The only one who would know what to say, and how to carry on. Even Anna, who had become her closest confidant by that point, never got the full story about the breakup. _

_The eventual result was a reputation that made Anna Wintour seem positively friendly by comparison. They called her cold and careful, and she worked hard to make sure it stayed that way. She was as untouchable as she was gorgeous, and it gave her all the power. She swore to herself that she wouldn't let down her guard again. _

But as she walks away from the lift, saying her customary goodnight to the night guard Mr. Carson, she can't seem to shake the feeling of him from her skin. It was a simple touch—an accident on all accounts, and yet it made her feel alive in a way that she wasn't even sure that she recognized. As she pushes open the heavy glass doors, the winter wind tangling its way through her hair, she thinks that maybe the walls she worked so hard to construct aren't the defense she had hoped for. _Maybe_, she thinks, _I should have built a moat as well._


	2. Long Nights and Glowing Lights

_Author's Note: So excited about this chapter! And so pleased with the response to the first one! I hope you can all forgive the distance between posts…the holiday was crazy (working 2 retail jobs ~womp) and time got away from me. But I hope that this proves worth the wait. And don't be afraid to let me know what you think!_

_And of course forever shout-out to La Donna Ingenua for being a thoroughly wonderful beta._

_(p.s. I made a fic/downton specific Tumblr, so find me there if that's your thing: anomalousbliss{dot}tumblr{dot}com. Fair warning though, it's not spoiler free!)_

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"**Long Nights and Glowing Lights"**

_**11:04 AM**_  
Twenty six more minutes. _God, has it really only been three minutes?_ Seated at his desk, his fingers tapping anxiously against his knees, Matthew Crawley is literally vibrating with nervous energy. _It's just a bloody board meeting, pull yourself together!_ He feels like a boy on his first day of school, full of uncertainty and nervous energy. _You're not on trial, for Christ's sake! You're just being formally introduced to the Executive Board._

He's never been very fond of cubicles, but he finds himself thankful that his associates can't see him fidgeting about. It's a small department—five people including himself—and they've all been nice enough so far. But he is fairly certain his behavior would not inspire their confidence in his professionalism.

He's been at Grantham for a little over two weeks now–two weeks filled with countless meetings, extensive legal briefings, and late nights followed by early mornings. But he still feels as if he's on the outside looking in, as if there is something bigger at play and he has yet to be keyed in. As an employee of a family business, he knows relatively little about the family he is working for–the family that shares his last name, but apparently not his lineage. He's met Rosamond and Mary, of course, but has yet to see much of anyone else bearing the Crawley name. It is this fact that he attributes his nervousness to, more than anything else. In _twenty four minutes now _he's finally going to meet the Chairman of the Board (as well as Grantham's Director of Public Relations), Violet Crawley–_Dowager Countess, family matriarch, and apparently the most fearsome woman to inhabit the British Isles. _

Even thinking her name causes a lump to rise in his throat and he works hard to swallow it down. Before arriving he assumed, perhaps falsely, that the Crawleys were a united front—a commercial conglomerate—each operating within a different niche. But from the little that he learned, it appears more like there is a line drawn in the sand separating two entirely different factions.

He vaguely knew of Robert Crawley before starting at Grantham, but was able to discern much more about him from the bits of gossip he's overheard from his co-workers. While the legal department may be fairly straight laced, the people in design and production have no qualms about talking frequently and openly about the undercurrent of the Crawley drama. It surprised Matthew to learn that an affair caused the end of Robert's marriage to Mary's mother, and that his current wife was his once mistress. He also learned that his step-son, with a reputation of being an insufferable git_, _is being polished to one day take over Crawley Investment Group, rather than one of his own daughters. He knows that Mary has two sisters, from the picture she keeps of the three of them on her desk—but he doesn't even know their names. He hasn't found the right opportunity to talk to her about them, even though he's been curious. She can't be more than thirteen or so in the picture, and the other girls are noticeably younger. He can't recall much about their appearance though, because the way Mary is smiling in the picture has burned itself into his brain. He's positive that he's never seen her smile so brightly in person, and he can't help but think that it's a bloody shame.

His heel is tapping incessantly against the floor, and the sound is as soothing as it is irritating. _Twenty-two minutes. Distract yourself, go do something! _Rising from his chair, he leans his head over the cube opposite his and asks Bill if he'd like a cup of tea. Matthew has wondered nearly every day of the past two weeks what exactly brought Bill VanAlstyne (a rather rotund man of about forty-five, whose interest in fashion is about as apparent as his interest in fitness) to Grantham. As the supervisor of Accounts Payable, his tasks focus more on spreadsheets and data than catwalks and catalogues, but it still strikes Matthew as an odd fit.

"No thank you, my lord; although it's very kind of you to offer," Bill answers with mock deference, a Cheshire cat smile plastered across his face. Matthew knows that the teasing is all in good fun, but he hoped they would have tired of it by now. He can hear Taylor sniggering from her desk in the corner, but he chooses to ignore them both. He learned well by now that reacting only adds fuel to their fire.

He shakes his head as he walks away, deciding that coffee might be a better choice than tea. He could use a bit more fortification. Their break room is small but well appointed, much like the suite itself, designed with efficiency in mind. The executive offices are on one side of the floor; the legal department on the other, break room and conference room situated towards the front, with the design and production team positioned in the middle—like a perimeter around the creative core.

As he enters the kitchenette area he is pleased to discover a fresh pot of coffee. He pulls a mug down from the overhead cabinet and slowly pours the steaming liquid into it. _Hazelnut_, he thinks as he brings the mug to his lips, thankful that it's not the dreadful holiday blend that someone brought in last week. He sips slowly, but still manages to scald the tip of his tongue. He sets the mug down on the counter, sighing in frustration. He runs his fingers through his hair before glancing at his watch to check the time. _Fifteen minutes. Nearly there._

He picks the mug up off the counter to take back to his desk, even though it is still far from a drinkable temperature. He's just about to exit the break room when he happens to see a woman that looks startlingly like Mary—or rather what he assumes Mary might look like in about twenty five years—exiting her office. Before he has a chance to process this, however, the lift door slides open and he sees who he can only imagine to be Violet Crawley step into the room. She's impeccably dressed in Grantham's own design, and the lights on the floor make her hair shine like polished chrome. Everything about her, from the way she holds her bag to the set of her eyebrows, is rigid and Matthew understands immediately why everyone seems to fear her.

Standing in the break room doorway, he is quite literally caught between them. He sees the moment their eyes meet—the tension that immediately straightens both of their postures and squares their shoulders. He sees the simultaneous intakes of breath, deep and steadying. He sees the smiles, paper thin and pressed, cautious if not entirely inauthentic. It's a bit like watching a lion sizing up a gazelle, although he can't quite make out who is the predator and who is the prey.

* * *

_It took her a bit longer than her ex, but Cora eventually remarried as well. She met her new husband, a cardiothoracic surgeon, Max Chambers, at a party in Newport her first summer back in the States. He was charismatic and funny with light hair and dark eyes, and he didn't remind her of Robert, even a little bit. The first night they met—under the stars and after several drinks—he had gently brought his palm to her cheek and told her that he knew how to fix a broken heart. She couldn't help but laugh, despite how earnest he appeared. When she could not stop laughing, he told her that a heart surgeon named Dr. Chambers should get a lifetime pass on corny jokes. She smiled then and kissed him, feeling for the first time in months that maybe her life didn't need to be so terrible. They talked through the night and went for a walk on the beach as the sun came up. He made her feel appreciated in a way that she hadn't felt in years—maybe ever. But the divorce left her guarded, and she was reluctant to begin dating again so soon, even if her ex-husband was already remarried. Max, however, was very patient. He was a friend first, a confidant, and eventually a lover. He proposed after a year of dating, and when she said that she wasn't sure she ever wanted to be married again, he told her he would keep asking until the day she said yes. It took another six months before she finally agreed to marry him. It had been hard for her to accept that someone might want to be with her because of who she was, and not because she had something to offer. Max didn't care about her money; he had his own. And he didn't care that she couldn't trace her ancestry back to the fourteenth century. He loved her, and that was enough. It was a simple ceremony compared to her first wedding, but her girls were there, and she didn't have any of the jittery feelings that she felt the first time around._

* * *

"Hello, Violet," the dark haired woman is first to break the silence. She smiles in a way that looks like it hurts—as if she is biting the insides of her cheeks to keep her lips from falling into a frown. Matthew doesn't notice the man standing beside her until he puts his arm around her shoulder. The gesture somehow seems as confrontational as it does protective.

"Cora, dear! My, what a pleasant surprise." Matthew watches their interaction in quiet fascination. The expression on her Violet's face belies any of the sincerity of her words, but he realizes that more than anything, she looks _embarrassed_–not angry, or fearsome, or any of the other things he had expected of her, but chastened, maybe even apologetic.

Before either of them have a chance to continue, Mary jogs out of her office, calling out "Mum, you forgot your phone!" She comes up short, and it takes her a moment to pick up on to the tension in the room around her. She looks from the woman who Matthew now knows to be her mother, to her grandmother, and back again, the color immediately draining from her face.

"Granny, you're a bit early for the meeting. I'm afraid we're not ready yet."

She glances quickly in the direction of the conference room and her eyes lock with his. He is frozen by her glare, which is both desperate and bewildered. She is unguarded—transparent—and he has no idea how to respond. But then she looks away again, the moment of clarity gone, and he does not know how it happened so quickly. She speaks around Violet to the woman seated at the desk in front of the lift.

"Gwen, please see that everything is arranged for the board meeting. And get Mrs. Crawley whatever she needs." Gwen is on her feet immediately, ushering Violet into the conference room. She follows without any resistance.

Mary turns back to her mother, placing a palm gently on her arm. Cora brings her hand up and pats Mary's gently. It is not an extravagant display of affection, but the weight of it is palpable. Everything about her Cora's countenance seems more relaxed now that the showdown has passed, and Matthew feels oddly emotional about witnessing such an intimate family moment. The man beside Cora seems to be more at ease as well, and he is glancing at her with unmistakable look of pride.

"Well, that went about as well as can be expected, don't you think?" He says with a smile.

Cora and Mary share an enthused glance, and Cora loops her arm through his, leaning into his side. If Matthew did not know otherwise, it would not have been difficult to assume that the three of them were a simple, happy family. Mary hands her mother the phone, and links arms on the opposite side of her, moving to lead them out. But as she gets nearer to where Matthew is standing, she stops.

"Mum, Max, this is Matthew Crawley, the newest member of our team. He's a fashion solicitor. And Matthew, this is my mother, Cora, and my step-father Max."

Hands are shaken and hellos are exchanged, and Matthew is surprised to discover that Mary's mother and step-father are both American. As far as he can remember, no one mentioned it. But there isn't time for more than the basic pleasantries, and all too soon Mary is leading them out. As the lift door is about to shut, she stops it with her arm and calls out to him.

"I'm just going to see them out, I'll be back before we're meant to start."

He's not entirely sure why she tells him; she's in charge, after all. But so little of what's happened in the past few minutes made any sense to him, so he decides to let it go. He walks back to his desk, depositing his coffee and steeling himself for what may come.

_**8:33 PM**_  
As he replays the events of the day in his head, he thinks that perhaps being on trial _would_have been better.

_The meeting itself should not have been very taxing; after all, he already knew everyone aside from Violet. He gets along quite well with Anthony Abbot, the Chief Legal Officer (and his direct supervisor), despite his seemingly boundless enthusiasm and inability to control the volume of his voice. While he doesn't spend very much time with Rosamond, he admires her tremendously. And then there's Mary, of course. Mary. They've consulted together on several projects over the past few weeks, and each time has left him a little more enamored than the last. _

_But Violet proved to be every bit as fiery as her reputation. Despite a glowing report from everyone in the room, she still looked at Matthew as if he was the embodiment of everything that she could not stand. "What is a fashion solicitor?" She asked, scoffing at the very sound of his profession. Even after his duties were explained, she was not quite convinced. "We've managed quite well so far, why should we have one now?" He could do nothing but stand there and bear the brunt of her scrutiny, savoring the apologetic looks from the others. _

_By the time Rosamond jumped in to save him, saying "Enough, mother. Matthew is a valuable part of our team and he's not going anywhere," he felt two inches tall. After being dismissed from the meeting, he returned to his desk and his cold cup of coffee, his battered confidence trailing behind him like a shadow._

Deciding that there's nothing more to be done tonight, he starts to pack up his things. Standing from his desk, he sees that Mary's light is still on. Part of him thinks he should go and knock on her door, just to see if she might want some company. Before he can decide, however, the light turns off. They step out into the main floor at the same time. She raises an eyebrow at him and he shrugs his shoulders. She reaches the lift just before he does and pushes the button to call in up.

"Still think it was such a good idea to let people assume you're related to us?"

It's a rhetorical question, really, but he smiles at her nonetheless.

While they worked together on a few projects, he hasn't been alone with her since his first night, even though there have been many nights like this one since, when he's seen the light from her office glowing. His reaction to being in her presence, however, is much the same as it was then. _Did she smell this good the last time? _he catches himself wondering. She looks…well, not frazzled exactly, but much less polished than is typical. The long hours have left dark circles below her eyes, and she holds her high heels in her hand, deciding on a pair that certainly tips the scales to practical rather than fashionable. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and is just a tad frizzy around the crown of her head. He thinks that seeing her a bit undone might be the most charming thing that he's ever seen.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to spend more time with your family today."

She smirks at him "I spend every day with my family."

"You know what I meant."

The lift arrives and they both step inside. He can't help but wonder if they chose to stand in the same spots on purpose, or if it is just coincidence.

"They're staying with my sister Edith for Christmas, so I'll see them again."

"You must miss them terribly."

"Of course I do; even more now that Sybil, my youngest sister, is with them. I try to visit as often as I can, but with all this…it's been difficult." Her stance is rigid, shoulders tensed, and from the way she keeps tapping the tips of her fingers together, Matthew can tell that she's deciding whether to say anything more. He wants to know more—everything, really—but he doesn't want to pry.

"How long has she been away?"

"My mother? She moved back when I was a teenager. Sybil's been about two years now. She's there for university, studying biology. Well, pre-med actually, at Yale. Max is an Associate Professor there, although she didn't need any help getting in. She's brilliant. Max has been wonderful to all of us, but he and Sybil have always favored each other. She was still so young when they married—so much less bitter about it all than Edith and I were. He let her listen to her heart with his stethoscope and that was it. She's been determined to study medicine ever since." She looks happier than he can recall seeing her, almost as happy as the picture on her desk, and he wishes that he could capture the look on her face and show it to the people in the business who claim she has no heart.

"It must be nice for your mother, to have her there. And she and Max seem quite happy." He smiles earnestly at her, hoping that his gesture is enough encouragement to continue.

She turns to him, the faintest of smiles tracing the corner of her lips. "They do, don't they? I don't think I ever really realized how unhappy she was with my father, even before…" She hesitates for just a moment, and suddenly she seems so much younger to him. The pain in her expression appears fresh, despite the years that have passed. "I don't think I knew how unhappy she had been before until I saw how happy she is with Max. The way she is with him…it was never like that between the two of them."

"I know it's none of my business, but just talking about them…you seem happier as well."

The door opens to the lobby, but neither of them move right away.

"I am, I suppose. Sometimes I wish that it was all easier. I've gotten better at it over the years…but seeing her and Max, and hearing how well Sybil is doing it's just…like being homesick for a place that was never your home."

And when he imagines what it would feel like to close the distance between them, and to take her into his arms, he thinks that he knows exactly what she means.


	3. High Heels and Business Deals

_Author's Note: Super sorry for the wait on this chapter. I was incapacitated by writers block for an embarrassingly long time, and my beta is currently suffering from the flu (so send her all of your good vibes). I do hope you enjoy it though! The ratio of people following to people leaving reviews is giving me mixed feelings, so if you're loving it or hating it, I would love to hear your thoughts. _

_Also, special thanks for tumblr user eatsleeptv for creating the lovely cover art! _

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**High Heels and Business Deals**

_**3:37 PM**_  
Even the driving rain, which has carried on ceaselessly for the past three days, cannot dampen his spirits.

He's won his first high profile case with Grantham—blocking an American retailer from selling cheap knock-offs of some of the most popular pieces from the Grantham fall collection. It is obviously a victory for Grantham, but he can't help feeling it is a victory for himself as well.

People have been stopping by his desk all afternoon to congratulate him, and even Bill has staved off a bit with the "heir" jokes. He's proud of his work, and glad to be able to prove his worth. He's never been one to pander for praise from his peers, but he's glad to have it all the same.

But as the day is winding down, so is his sense of euphoria. He's been back at the office for several hours and has still not seen the one person whose approval really matters to him. She must know of his success by now, and yet she has not come to see him. His rational mind is telling him that it's nothing—she's busy, that's all—but part of him can't help but wonder if she's avoiding him. _But why would she be? It's not as if anything has happened._His feelings for her have only increased in intensity since the day of the board meeting. In those fleeting moments—her guard down and her heels off—he saw the Mary Crawley that so few people ever get to know, and he was instantly captivated by her.

He knows she still in the office, so he opts to go and see her rather than sitting and stewing over why she has not come to see him. As he approaches her office, he hears that she is on the phone. She sounds irritated—her tone clipped and terse—and she sighs audibly in frustration. Whoever is on the other end is clearly trying her patience. He steps closer and through her open door he sees that her head is cradled in her hand, her thumb and middle finger rubbing her temples.

"I'm sorry, but it's a ridiculous request and I don't have the time. I don't understand why you can't just take your wife with you." As she exhales, her hand falls from her face and balls into a fist against her lap.

"That's all well and good, but my answer remains no. And don't even think of asking Edith, she's got enough on her plate as it is." He considers turning to leave, but doesn't get the chance.  
She looks up and sees him in the doorway, and smiles at him, covering the mouth piece of the phone to whisper _sorry._

"Look, I've got to go…." He can tell she's been cut off by whoever is on the other end; "fine" is all she says before she—rather aggressively—hangs up.

"Sorry, that was my _father_." He sees the animosity in the way she wraps her lips around the word—like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"His title is largely ceremonial since the family no longer owns an estate, but one of his duties is to play nice with the dignitaries when necessity requires it. He wants me to accompany him to a dinner with the son of some ambassador or another, sent as an attaché to the Turkish Embassy."

"And you're not interested" his inflection implies a question—he hopes it's not terribly obvious that he was eavesdropping.

"Not in the slightest. It's his obligation, not mine." She reclines back in her chair a bit to cross her legs, and he notices that she's kicked her heels off beneath her desk.

"It sounds rather exciting, dining with dignitaries," he leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest.

She laughs a bit before she answers. "I can assure you that it is anything but. It's all false pleasantries and patting of egos and there is never enough wine to make it tolerable." He is so transfixed by the pen that she is twirling between her fingers that he barely registers her answer. He wonders if anyone has ever told her how beautiful her hands are. If she has any idea how elegant her fingers are, or how they are currently affecting him.

"Anyway, I'm sure that's not why you're here." She smiles, bringing him back to the present. "I know I've been a bit tied up today, but I hear congratulations are in order."

"Yes, I suppose it's been a good day for Grantham." All the confidence he felt in coming to see her vanishes in her presence. He feels his knees begin to shake and he curses himself for being unable to remain composed.

"Don't be so modest, Matthew, it's a good day for you. Aunt Rosamond must be thrilled…"  
Before Mary can continue her thought, Rosamond appears in the doorway behind him. He steps further into Mary's office to accommodate her.

"Aunt Rosamond must what?" she asks as she looks between the two of them, her expression equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

"I was just telling Matthew that you must be very pleased with his work. We should all be pleased."

"As I am and as we all are!" she smiles brightly at him. "In fact I was just coming to invite Matthew to the party tonight. I've just gotten off the phone with Edith and she said she'd be delighted to have him."

A look of alarm briefly flashes across Mary's face, but before he can think of why, she is smiling again and confirming with her aunt "yes, what a lovely idea."

If Rosamond noticed any trepidation on Mary's part, she does not show it.

"Splendid! It's the last hurrah before Cora and Max head back to the states, and the first of what I'm sure will be many victory celebrations for you, Matthew. Party's at 7:30, Mary can give you directions."

She turns and goes as quickly as she arrived, leaving Matthew and Mary alone once again.  
He wonders briefly if he imagined the whole encounter, but Mary is looking at him expectantly, and he realizes that she's said something he was meant to respond to.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" his cheeks flush a bit from the embarrassment of being caught distracted.

"I was saying that I can give you the directions now or I can text them to you, which is clearly our best bet—wouldn't want you to walk away and forget them."

She's teasing him, he knows it, but the atmosphere feels different now. Their awareness of one another is heightened. He smirks at her rather than replying, to which she laughs. He can't pinpoint an exact moment when they started reading each other so well—somewhere between meetings and coffee and rides in the elevator—but he feels certain that she knew what he was going to say without him having to say it.

"Seven thirty." _See you then_

"Seven thirty." _Looking forward to it_

* * *

_**7:36 PM**_

He's not sure exactly what he was expecting, but standing outside of the bright pink row home in Notting Hill, he's sure it wasn't this. He rings the bell and returns his hands to his coat pockets. It's not a cold as it might be in London in January, but the wind is biting and he's glad he decided to take a taxi instead of the tube (even if the ride cost a small fortune). His breath curls out in clouds around his face, and he shrugs his shoulders to bring the collar of his coat a bit higher up. He's about to press the bell again when the door opens, and he blinks against the brightness of the entry way, which is painted a shade of neon that he's not sure he's ever seen before. No, this isn't at all what he was expecting.

He's never met Edith before, but there is something about her presence that he recognizes instantly. It's not that she looks particularly like Mary—her hair and eyes are lighter and she's not as tall—but the way she stands, the way she squares her shoulders, as if she's on guard—there is no mistaking her as anything other than a Crawley woman. He's wonders if a defensive posture can be inherited, or if it is merely a product of their circumstance.

She practically pulls him in the door, taking his coat in the process. "You must be Matthew then. It's a pleasure to meet you." She smiles at him so warmly that he all but forgets the cold. To call her taste in décor eclectic would be an understatement. The neon walls of the foyer are covered in art prints of a century's worth of automobile designs, and an ornate crystal chandelier hangs above their heads. It should be tacky, but for some reason it all works.

"The pleasure is all mine; it was very generous of you to let me crash a family party like this."

"Nonsense! Besides, you _are _a Crawley, even if you're not one of our own. And you deserve to be celebrated."

He hears laughter coming from what he assumes is the dining room, and realizes that everyone else must have already arrived. His eyes are drawn again to the prints on the wall, and he takes a step closer to observe them.

"These are quite remarkable" His eyes pass over them slowly, noting the progression of the eras and the evolution of styles.

"I like to keep them around for inspiration." Edith responds blithely, as if everyone should be inspired by technical renderings of automobiles.

"Inspiration?"

"Yes, I'm a designer. It seems to run in the family. But I prefer cars over clothing. I've been working for Aston Martin for two years now." She is standing next to him now and he looks at her in quiet fascination. She notices the expression on his face and smiles.

"If you ever tire of the fashion world, I'm sure I could get you in. We're always in need of good lawyers." She heads down the hallway, a glance back over her shoulder indicating that he should follow.

The color of the dining room is a much more understated shade of blue, which somehow manages to seamlessly blend the dark regency furniture with the modern light fixture hanging above the table. He is indeed the last to arrive—everyone else already tucked comfortably into a glass of wine and an apparently hilarious conversation.

"Well I supposed introductions aren't necessary, so what can I get you to drink?" she gestures for him to sit, and he glances around to see what's on the table.

"I'll take the red."

* * *

_**9:08 PM**_

The food was delicious, the conversation entertaining, and he's fairly certain he's never had a better cabernet. He's sitting to Mary's left, observing the way she delicately traces her finger around the rim of her wine glass. Their banter over dinner was flirtatious yet still cautious, which, if he really thought about it, seemed to be true of all of their interactions. He watches as she smiles pleasantly at her mother's story about their younger sister Sybil, which ends with them all in tears from laughter.

"She's seeing someone, you know," Cora looks between Mary and Edith, curious to see their reactions.

Edith is the first to respond. "Really? She never mentioned it. Although I suppose it has been a while since we've Skyped together." She looks to Mary "Did you know?"

Mary shakes her head "No, she didn't say anything to me."

"He's a paramedic," Cora continues, "she met him at the hospital. He drives an ambulance."

Matthew looks from face to face and decides that no one looks very surprised by this news.

Max cuts in "I'm not in the ER much, but I've met him once or twice and he seems to have a good head on his shoulders. And he's _so dreamy_," he pretends to fan his face with his hand, batting his eyelashes wildly.

Everyone is in tears again, and Matthew notices how Cora playfully hits Max's shoulder before she leans into his side.

He's only just caught his breath when Roasmund turns to him, a curious look on her face.

"Matthew, I've been dying to know—why fashion, of all things?" Suddenly, all eyes are on him.

He's not sure if it's the wine or the atmosphere, or maybe both, but his response forms in an instant. "What, is my impeccable style not enough of an indicator for you?" He laughs as he gestures to his outfit, a look of mock indignation on his face. He sees Mary raise an eyebrow at him as she brings her glass of wine to her lips.

"No, the truth is that I've always found design to be fascinating. Unfortunately I wasn't blessed with any real creative talent—left brain bullies the right brain sort of thing. I've spent all my life appreciating the creations of others but never being able to produce anything of my own, and then I heard about fashion law and it just seemed sensible. If I can't make anything, I can at least help people to protect their work. I'm afraid it must seem rather dull to all of you, but I'm proud of what I do."

"I don't think it's dull at all." Mary says it quickly, and her cheeks flush, and he's sure it is not because of the wine.

The moment is broken by the sound of the doorbell, and Edith rises to answer it.

Max volunteers to start the dishes, and Cora helps him collect the plates from the table.

Mary takes a large sip of wine, emptying her glass, before reaching for the bottle.  
Rosamond seems to sense the tension, and tries to pragmatically flee the room. "I'll just go and see what's keeping Edith."

But before she has a chance to leave, Mary rises from her chair. "Oh no, don't bother. I'll do it."

Her smile is as much a plea as it is a command, and Rosamond sits back down.

He's trying his best to recover from the sudden shift in the atmosphere, but the night suddenly seems determined to unravel. The connection that he thought was being forged between he and Mary now seems utterly disconnected.

From the table they hear raised voices in the foyer. Cora comes out of the kitchen, dish towel in hand, to see what the commotion is all about. She gets as far as the staircase in the hallway before she freezes in place, and suddenly it seems as if the oxygen has been pulled from the room. Matthew hears a man's voice just before he hears the door close, and he sees Mary bolt down the hallway.

He's not entirely sure what's happened, but as he sees Edith pull Cora into a firm embrace, he is fairly sure he knows who was at the door.

Cora breaks away from Edith, kissing her on the forehead, before returning to the kitchen.

Rosamond has gone completely silent, and Matthew wishes that he was anywhere else in the world.

"Is Mary…is everything alright?" He knows it's a stupid thing to ask, but he asks it anyway.  
At first, Edith doesn't say anything. She turns back down the hallway to the foyer, but returns a moment later.

"She'll be out back. Bring this," she says, handing him Mary's coat. He rises from the table and walks down the hallway leading to the back door. He steps out onto the porch and sees her leaning with her elbows against the railing, glass of wine still held between her hands. He's not sure what to say, so he doesn't say anything. He drapes her coat over her shoulders and leans next to her.

After several moments of silence, he gestures to the glass in her hand. "Wish I'd thought to grab mine. Helps you forget the cold."

She regards him for a second before she hands him her glass. She slides her arms into her coat, and he notices just how much she is shivering. He takes a slow sip before handing it back. Her eyes move from his to the liquid she is swirling around the glass. He's desperate to get her talking.

"Edith is lovely," he knows it a reach, and he knows that she knows it, but to his relief, she responds.

"We were beastly to each other as children. But after my father…after the divorce we knew that we had to stick together."

"That was him, at the door then?" He dreads bringing it up, but curiosity gets the better of him.

"Yes."

He has no idea what to say to her—nothing he can think of to make anything better. He reaches his hand out and places it over hers, and she does not pull away. Their eyes connect, and even in the silence they seem to know:

_You can talk to me_

_I'm trying_

She pulls in a shuddering breath, building her resolve. She holds it in for a moment before releasing it—her shoulders relax and she takes another sip of wine.

"For him to do that to us, _to all of us_…and then to expect us to just live with the two of them like everything was fine. For her to pretend that all was as it should be…I still don't understand how someone could be so utterly clueless. And then for him to show up here tonight…I know Edith didn't tell him they were here, but he had to have known. Granny would have told him."

She pauses, but he senses that she is not finished. He grips her hand just a little bit tighter.

"I don't blame my mother for leaving. Perhaps I should, but I don't. I can't. She loved my father so much—gave up so much for him: her life, her friends, her country. And he put her on this ridiculous pedestal, only to knock it out from beneath her." Tears rim her eyes and her breath comes out in a huff "God, it was such a farce!"

She's sobbing now, and he's trying not to panic. He leans in closer to her and places his arm over her shoulders. To his surprise, she turns into him, her forehead pressing into the collar of his coat. He pulls her in closer and tries not to think about how he could hold her like this forever.

It's not long before her breathing becomes steady, and he is already dreading letting her go. She lifts her head from his shoulder, and even with tear stained eyes he finds her captivating. He lets his arm fall from her shoulders but doesn't move back. Their breath is colliding in the small space between them, the swirling fog filled with all of the things that they dare not say.

She blinks slowly, and he is sure that she's going to pull away. But when she opens her eyes again, she looks directly into his. Her hands find the lapels of his coat which she uses to pull him closer before slowly bringing her lips to his.

It's cold and hot and tastes like wine and tears, and nothing has ever been better. He can't move—can't breathe—as she pulls back slightly, only to come back again, this time for a shorter peck.

When she finally lets go, she does not say a word. She picks up her wine glass from the railing, turns around, and walks back into the house.

Despite the cold, his body is impossibly hot. He tastes nothing but tears and wine. He hears nothing but the sound of his heart beating in his ears. He feels nothing but her.


	4. Second Guessing and Confessing

_Author's Note: Just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's been reading/reviewing/favoriting this story. My life is in a really transitional space right now and I don't have as much time to devote to writing as I would like and I'm sure you as readers would appreciate, so the support I do get is extra meaningful. I just moved to start a new job and my accommodations do not have internet/cable, so keeping in touch with my beta is tricky, but I do promise that this story will be finished. Hope you'll stick around to see the end. _

* * *

"**Second Guessing and Confessing"**

_**5:06PM**_

_"Never take certainty for granted"_, her grandfather always used to say, _"Sometimes you know, sometimes you don't, but never pretend either way."_ Mary spent a lot of time with him when she was very young and often found that she did not understand what he was trying to tell her.

He was very fond of talking and Mary was very fond of the toffee candies he always kept in his pocket, which meant that she was happy to listen, even if his words were beyond her grasp.

But now, sitting at her desk, this phrase in particular keeps circling in her mind. It seems as if the only thing she's certain of anymore is that she's never been more uncertain. _But am I pretending? _She leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. She wishes more than anything that she could talk to her grandfather again—to know him as an adult—to ask him what she should do next. Perhaps he could help her make heads or tails of her situation, because she's failing miserably on her own. It has been two days since the party, and Matthew has been in court and she's managed to get out of the office before dinner time, so her fears about having to avoid him have been for naught. But she's hardly thought of anything else.

She was a little bit drunk and more than a little bit upset, but she knows now as much as she knew then that that's not why she kissed him. No, if she's honest with herself she knows she's wanted to kiss him for quite some time.

But kissing him was…dangerous. It crossed too many lines, broke too many rules, made things too complicated—and she enjoyed it too much. And now, she thinks about it too often. She remembers the feel of his lips pressed to hers, and the taste of wine and the fog of their breaths, and the way his heartbeat felt beneath her palm. The memories bring her blood rushing to her cheeks. She has never been so affected by a kiss. She tries to reason that it's because she has not kissed very many people, and therefore he's bound to stand out, but she knows it's not that simple. He is not something that she planned on, and she is not sure how to shift the paradigm.

Her rational mind is telling her that it was a mistake—a one time lapse in judgment, not to be repeated—but she can't make herself believe it. It was a bad decision, certainly—but not a mistake.

She feels stifled by her thoughts, and she's desperate for a drink. She also wants to talk to her baby sister, because she always knows what to do in these sorts of situations. Mary has always marveled at her ability to be both rational and romantic—to elucidate all of the things that most find to be tedious and perplexing about romance and turn them into solvable problems.

She checks the time and decides that she might as well head home. She's been beating her head against her desk for most of the afternoon anyway. It only takes her a moment to gather her things and head for the lift, looking forward to a glass of wine and a conversation on Skype. She says a polite goodbye to Gwen before pushing the button to descend to the lobby. The ride seems quicker when she is alone. But the lift is not a place to go to escape thoughts of him-quite the opposite, in fact. She tries to suppress the smile she feels when she thinks of the night they met. He was so obviously nervous, and their interaction almost painfully awkward, and yet he still managed to make an impression. She was attracted to him then, and she is certain that he was attracted to her, but attraction is only ever part of the equation. Attachment, feelings, love...these are the variables she is not ready to compute.

The door opens in the lobby and of course, there he is. He looks as startled as she feels, and they are both frozen. The door begins to close and he reaches out to stop it. She moves to step out as he steps in and they are suddenly too close—almost touching, chest to chest—and the tension is too much. He smiles bashfully and she decides to step back into the lift instead of out into the lobby. The doors close and they are alone.

When she is near him, she feels everything that she does not want to feel. Her mind fills with questions she does not want to answer. His proximity seems to make her pulse quicken. Hearing him laugh makes her smile. She delights in observing him; the way that he always flinches at the first sip of his coffee because he never gives it a chance to cool frustrates her as much as it humors her. And the way that he looks at her whenever they speak—as if he can read between the lines—the way he understands the things that she says as well as the things she doesn't. She has nothing to compare him to and it unnerves her.

She takes a breath before she turns to him, "another successful day?" _simple_, she thinks. Keep it simple and to the point.

"I think so, yes. But I'm afraid I won't know for certain for a few more days." He runs his fingers through his hair, and she thinks that he is trying to look casual. She stifles a laugh as she watches him. He doesn't have the gift for body language that was instilled in her, growing up in a world where emotions were weapons to be used against you. He is simple in so many ways that she is not.

"Well we have nothing but confidence if your abilities." _Shit_, she thinks. So much for simple.  
He blushes at the compliment, and she hopes he doesn't take it the wrong way. She hopes she didn't mean it the wrong way.

When they reach the floor he moves and she stays and the dance that they keep falling into plays on.

"I'm glad things are progressing well. I hope you have a pleasant evening." She smiles in a way that she hopes means to be professional and nothing else. But before the door shuts and before she can remember to stop holding her breath, he turns back toward her.

"Mary, do you think you might like to…do you think that we might get a drink? If you don't have other plans, that is." She can read the hope in his eyes like the headline of a newspaper and even though every instinct is telling her to say no, not today, what she actually says is "sure, why not."

And he smiles like a child on Christmas morning. She tells him that she'll wait for him in the lobby because she knows that she needs a moment to herself. A moment to forget his look of relief at her acceptance. A moment to build her resolve.

* * *

_**5:58 PM**_

The pub is quiet and comfortable and the wine has already relieved some of the tension in her shoulders. The conversation has been flirtatious yet vague thus far, and she can practically see the gears of his mind turning as he tries to think of a way to bring up their kiss. His fingers are laced together on top of the table, and his thumbs seems to be battling each other. She keeps catching his eyes trained on her lips, whether she is speaking or not.

She thinks she is ready for it, but she still holds a breath in a bit longer than usual when he does finally speak

"I was hoping that we could talk…about the other night." She can tell he's nervous; he's avoiding her eyes, and his heel is tapping on the floor, which is making the rest of him sort of vibrate.

But she realizes as soon as he opens his mouth that she doesn't really want to talk about the other night. At least not in the way that he seems to want to talk about it.

"Yes, I'm terribly sorry about all that. My family is…complicated. I never meant for you to get dragged into it." she gazes at him apologetically.

She can see that he's knocked off track, but he's not ready to give up just yet

"Yes, well, family can always be challenging. But that's not exactly what I meant." He swallows hard and wipes a stray hair away from his face. He's looking everywhere but at her.

She takes a sip of her drink and eyes him carefully, aware of the edge that they are teetering on

"Really? What's your family like? You seem like the type who had a Mother and father happily married—two kids and a dog, perhaps? An eyebrow quirks and she sits up straighter, her default defense mechanisms kicking in. _Shut down, close off, move away. _

She's being antagonistic, but it feels easier than the alternative.

He looks…confused, or hurt—maybe both. "My mother and father were very much in love, yes. But it's just me. No siblings. And my father died several years ago."

She's sorry she's said it, but there's no going back now.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

She is sincere, but offers nothing more.

"Thank you." He wants to say more, she can tell. But he seems weary now. She feels regret and relief in equal measure.

"Their relationship—my mother and father—showed me what it was to love. I'll always be thankful for that. I know what a gift it is." He chooses this moment to finally look at her again.

It's meant to be a peace offering, but she takes it as a challenge.

"I don't think I believe in love. Not for me anyway" her words are cool, and she leans away from the table a bit, adding physical distance as well as emotional.

But he leans in closer. "I wish you wouldn't pretend with me."

"What do you mean?" _don't let him see you off guard, don't let him see you off guard._

"This act—this show you put on for everyone—I know it's not the real you. I've seen her, Mary. I've seen who you really are and I think it's a shame that you hide her from the rest of the world. This bitterness will eat away at you if you let it. There will be nothing left. I know you're trying to protect yourself, but at what cost? These walls, Mary…they don't just keep people out, they keep you trapped in. And whoever made you feel like they were necessary…like you can't trust anyone…obviously didn't deserve you in the first place." He seems to be a little out of breath, and visibly surprised at himself for having said it.

And despite her best efforts, she flinches at his words.

But she's been doing this for a long time and she quickly pulls herself back together.

"Oh Matthew, if only it were as romantic as all that. The thing is…it's not been one person or one heart break. My entire life has made it abundantly clear to me that when it really matters, the only person I can depend upon is myself." She is resolute.

He frowns deeply, shaking his head

"You can count on me, Mary." it's practically a whisper, and laced with desperation, but she will not give in.

"Why would I need to do that?" _you don't need him. You don't need him. _

"I thought it was obvious…I thought we..." he looks positively downtrodden, and she feels like she cannot breathe in this space anymore.

"I should really be going." she grabs her back and steps back from the table

He finally looks up at her and she has to remind herself to breathe. His voice is graveled with despair.

"Don't run away from me Mary. Don't make the things that people say about you true. Don't prove them right."

He knows it was the wrong thing to say. She could see the horror written across his face even if her eyes were closed. He's not used to pulling punches. But she is.

"What if they are right, Matthew? What if everything that's ever been said about me is true? Maybe I am frozen inside and out. Did you think that one kiss would change that? Did you honestly believe that one insignificant brush of your lips was going to break the spell? To save the princess from her tower? That's not how this works, I'm afraid."

And it doesn't matter how he's looking at her anymore, because she does not care.

She's gone before he can react, and he does not follow her.

* * *

The next day is almost over before she sees him again. She's almost made it to the lift before he sees her from across the room. He approaches her cautiously, not wanting to cause a scene.

"I was hoping we might have a chance to talk. There are things that I need to say to you Mary… to apologize for." He is the picture of contrition, but it makes no difference.

"I'm afraid I don't have time, I'm meeting my father for dinner with the ambassador's son."

And as the door close, as she sees the hope drain from his face, she remembers something else that her grandfather used to tell her.

"_The only thing more difficult than getting a Crawley to admit they've made a mistake is expecting them to learn from it."_


	5. Loose Lips and Sinking Ships

_Author's Note: I always think I'm going to post elaborate author's notes, and then I get here and...yeah, not so much. I will say that this is a pretty pivotal chapter in this story, as it deals with Pamuk. The scenario of their interaction will obviously be different than canon, but this chapter does involve sexual misconduct akin to 1x03, which might be triggering for some people. I have also upped the rating to M, just to be safe. I think that about covers it though, aside from the usual thank you's to my beta (the phenomenal LDI) and readers. And a bonus shout-out to tumblr user nonamesnopackdrill for being a last minute sounding board_

* * *

**Loose Lips and Sinking Ships**

_**6:39 AM**_

The shrill cry of her mobile jars her from sleep and she glares at the screen as if her look alone conveys her displeasure at the caller–Edith, as it turns out. She lets it go to voicemail. It is too early for phone calls, and entirely too early to be awake after such a horrendous evening. For a moment she hoped it was all a bad dream, but the persistent radiating pain in her head is a palpable link to reality. Her shins ache from running in heels, and as she stretches her legs, she feels that the top of her foot seems to be stuck to the sheet. Throwing back the covers, she sees a splotch of dried blood from a cut she hadn't noticed. She rolls over and shuts her eyes, hoping sleep will be quick to reclaim her. Her phone goes off almost immediately. Grunting, she sits up and grabs it from the bedside table.

"I get to sleep past dawn one day a week Edith, whatever you have to tell me better be a matter of life or death." The room is not bright, but her hand falls across her eyes anyway.

"Mary, turn on your television." If she were more alert, she would recognize the alarm in the tone of her sister's voice.

But she is annoyed and irritable, and not at all in the mood for television.  
"What on earth for?"

"Just _do it._" Edith pleads, and Mary feels an inkling of guilt for being so terse.

"Fine, what bloody channel?"

Sighing in annoyance, she throws her arm out to the side table, awkwardly groping for the remote. She feels it under her fingertips and stretches them out to drag it towards her. It would be easier to just sit up a bit more and reach for it, but she has no desire to exert any energy for such an idiotic request. She presses the power button and the screen illuminates. She hits the down arrow with more force than necessary, directing her anger into channel seeking rather than berating her sister for waking her up so early after such a vile night.

She reaches the channel. The morning news.

"You can't be serious. I don't give a damn about the Kardashians during normal business hours Edith, why on earth would you wake me to watch a story about them?"

"Just _wait _a second" Edith practically begs.

From the screen Mary hears: "And ahead, a rather compromising video has surfaced, sparking the embers of the latest celebrity sex scandal."

"Good lord, another one? You'd think she would have learned after the first one."

"_Mary…_"

The broadcaster continues: "Due to the explicit nature of this content, only a brief excerpt of the video can be shown."

The image on the screen is dark and fuzzy, and it first it doesn't look like anything. But then the camera shifts focus and the greenish glow of a night vision camera illuminates two figures on a bed.

The headline reads: _Queen of Fashion Caught Undressed._

In that moment, everything she thinks she knows about her life implodes. She sees but she does not believe. She feels the sting of stomach acid rising in her throat and she presses her palm firmly over her mouth hoping to keep it down. _It's not real. It can't be real. It didn't happen._ And yet it _is_ happening, right in front of her eyes. Even as the tears begin to obstruct her vision, she sees herself—_her hair, her shirt, her body—_in his arms and reality becomes a fistful of sand.

"Edith, it's not what you think." She hangs up the phone without another word.

* * *

_Dinner had been infinitely more pleasant than she anticipated. She arrived at her father's apartment and found him ready and waiting for her, sparing her the need to go inside for inane conversation with her step-mother and brother. Traffic was miraculously sparse for the time of day, and of course they never had to wait at restaurants. They had only just been seated when Mary noticed a rather attractive young man making his way towards their table. Her father spotted him just a second after she did, and rose with a hand outstretched to greet him. Kemal Pamuk. He was not at all what Mary was expecting. She thought of the conversation she'd had with Matthew, about how evenings like this were always insufferable, and how he had looked at her then—equal parts fascination and disbelief. In the moment she found it endearing. But in this moment, she did not want to think of that moment—or any moments concerning Matthew Crawley. _

_The conversation was stimulating: politics, sport, economy—they were practically sparring—and Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd met someone so willing to challenge her. He was like a breath of fresh air. And then, after what seemed to be far too little time, the meal was over and the bill was settled. As they made their way out to meet their cars, her father was rather conveniently called away, leaving her free to accept Kemal's invitation to join him at his flat for a drink. He held the door open for her as they got into the back of his town car, and before she had a chance to slide properly into her seat he was next to her, pulling her into his arms. His lips found hers with remarkable speed, and she was momentarily stunned. But she recovered her senses quickly enough and separated her body from his. "I said I would join you for drinks, Mr. Pamuk. I don't remember expressing an interest in anything else." _

_"Of course," he said, and he smiled in a way that she could not have known was dangerous._

_The trip was not long, but it was enough time for Mary to wonder if perhaps it would have been better not to join him. His company had been pleasant in an intoxicating sort of way, but what had at first felt freeing and maybe a little bit rebellious felt increasingly like a mistake._

_His apartment was immaculate; modern in design and monochromatic in color, and everything about it made her feel on edge. He handed her a glass of wine which she accepted, but sipped with hesitance. He offered to give her a tour of the place, which felt unnecessary, since the open floor plan meant that she could see all but the bedroom and bathroom from where she was standing in the kitchen. He spoke of art and detailed the numerous paintings he had on display. It felt like safe territory and she listened eagerly, mentioning her own favorites, both contemporary and classical. She felt more at ease, the easy banter from dinner once again flowing between them. "There is one more painting I'd like for you to see." He stepped closer to her and took her hand, letting his thumb brush across her knuckles. He led her towards what she knew must be the bedroom, and she tried to ignore the voice in her head telling her not to go. But then she remembered another voice, telling her about acts and walls and trust and she moved with him. She noticed the lovely painting covering the majority of one of the bedroom walls for just a second before all she could see was him. He led her to the edge of his bed and pulled her down on top of him. Her mind raced and her breathing quickened and she knew that what she was feeling had nothing to do with walls or acts—she did not want to be with him._

_But he became more insistent: his mouth was moving all over her, and his hands were covering her and pulling her closer, and it was too much. She brought her hands to his chest and tried to push away, but he only held her more firmly. She tried to speak but he crushed his mouth against hers, stopping her words. She felt her pulse quicken and he seemed to sense it too, although his interpretation of the reason was very different than her own. When he finally removed his mouth for want of breath, she told him to stop. But he kissed her again, and whispered her name into her ear. She told him no, but he did not listen. His hands made their way up her back, taking her shirt with them. Since her words were not working, she tried again to break free from him grasp, to no avail. "Just relax" he told her. She did not relax. With all the force she could muster from her position—straddled across his lap, his arms like a vice—she shifted all her weight to one side, bringing her knee around far enough to slam between his legs. _

_He let go._

_And she ran._

* * *

_**1:56 PM**_

"Papa is furious, naturally, since he made the connection in the first place. Although I couldn't tell you if he's feeling more guilty or embarrassed about it. He's gotten in touch with the editor of the Mail, Richard somebody. Carter? No, Carlisle. Anyway, he says he won't retract. Apparently nothing sells like sex and celebrity. It didn't seem to phase him that the sex part didn't actually happen. So we'll keep pressing Pamuk with more money until he confesses that the tape is a fake."

She leans into the cushions of her sister's couch, Edith on one side of her and Anna on the other, trying to project strength that she does not feel. She sips from her mug of tea slowly, using the moment to let out the breath she had been holding.

Anna looks at her skeptically, "Mary, what if it's not money that he's after? You should talk to a lawyer."

Mary knows that Anna is right, but she's not ready to think about it yet. She wants all of the madness to go away, and as quickly as possible, and if she tells herself it's about money, it seems easier to sweep away. "Everyone has a price, we'll find his." Even she does not feel assured.

Edith shakes her head in frustration.

"It just seems so ridiculous—it's not you... in the video, at least not all of you—there must be a way to prove it. Perhaps the other woman will recognize herself and come forward? If you didn't know that he was recording there is a chance she didn't either. You could both build a case…"

Mary cuts her off, "If people want to believe it, the truth doesn't matter very much."

Edith is not satisfied, but knows her sister well enough to change the subject.

"Will you go to America to wait it out?" She asks tentatively.

"Where there a paparazzi behind every bush and bus stop? No. I think I'll take my chances in London." Mary rises from her place on the sofa and moves to look out the window.

Behind her, Edith and Anna exchange a concerned glance, both knowing that there is nothing they can say that will make anything better.

They sit in a silence that is all tension and no peace.

"What about Matthew?" Edith asks suddenly.

Mary whips around to face her sister.

"What about Matthew? He's got nothing to do with this!"

She hears the way her words come out, alarmed and defensive, and she hopes that her sister and her best friend will be good enough to not infer anything from it.

"Well, he is a lawyer, and he does already work for you. It's not his area of expertise, of course, but he might know what to do." Edith looks so hopeful, Mary can't decide if she'd rather laugh about it or cry.

It seems so simple; of course he would know what to do. Because he's Matthew; he's good, and he's smart, and he listens. He _listens to her. _But she remembers the last words she said to him, and she knows she should not go to him. She _can't _go to him. He's surely seen the story by now, and he's probably imagining the very worst things.

Her mug is empty and she sets it down on the coffee table, pausing only for a moment before she picks up her bag.

"I've got to go" is all she says, and both Anna and Edith know better than to try to stop her.

* * *

_**11:47 PM**_

She steps out of the taxi and onto the pavement and all of the resolve she built during the trip from Mayfair to Southbank crumbles away from her like bricks turned to dust.

_After leaving Edith's, she spent the remainder of her afternoon sitting in her bathtub. She sat until the water grew cold and her skin became so wrinkled that it ached. For every reason she found to see Matthew, she found three more why she shouldn't. She drained the water but did not move until the cold porcelain of the tub had chilled her so thoroughly that she thought she might actually be frozen to it. Her apartment was dark but she did not turn on the lights. She felt her way to her dresser and pulled on the first shirt she found before crawling into her bed and wrapping the covers tightly around herself._

_But after several hours of counting breaths and visually tracing the perimeter of the ceiling, she thought of one reason to see Matthew that she could not argue against: she wanted to. More than anything else, she wanted to see him._

She presses the bell and holds her breath. It's too soon for him to have reached the door, but she's already convinced that he's asleep and won't answer. She's shaking and she tells herself it is only from the cold of the night air. And just when she thinks that perhaps she should leave, she hears footsteps coming to the door.

He opens it slowly, and she can tell from the way he is looking at her that she is the last person he expected to be on his doorstep at ten to midnight on a Sunday night. He's in pyjamas, and could very well have been sleeping, but he steps back to invite her in anyway.

He leads the way to the kitchen and gestures to the kettle, she nods in the affirmative.  
She's spent all day thinking about what she should say to him, and now she can't seem to say anything. Her mouth feels dry and her palms are clammy, and she wants to disappear.

He's tense, but quiet—waiting for her to break the ice.

She sinks into one of the chairs at his small dining table and her joins her a few minutes later, tea in hand.

She wraps her fingers around the mug, letting it warm them.

"I imagine that you watched the news today." She does not look at him when she speaks.

"I have," is all he says. His tone is not hard or soft, not sympathetic or accusatory. She decides to continue,

"Edith said I should consult you as a lawyer, but I wanted to…to tell you as a friend. Tell you what really happened." She chances a glance at him. He does not look angry. She had feared that the most.

"Mary, you don't have to… you don't owe me anything." He takes a sip from his mug, his eyes breaking away from hers.

"Perhaps not, but I'd like tell you anyway. It's important to me that you know the truth."

And she does her best to explain it all to him. She tells him about the man that was as devious on the inside as he was charming on the outside, and the video she didn't know was being recorded, what could have happened but didn't. She tells him that she is okay even though she isn't, and he knows it.

But he remains quiet throughout, letting her say everything that she needs to say.

"You…you weren't wrong. About me, that is. I can be bitter and I do shut people out, and I make impulsive decisions that hurt people because it's better than letting myself feel the pain. It's obviously not a fool proof plan." She pauses for a moment and he looks up at her. She can see the storm of emotions playing in his eyes.

"I'm angry at my life, Matthew, not at you. And while I never would have imagined things turning out this badly, I am sorry none the less."

She doesn't know how heavily she is breathing until she stops speaking, and the noise of her lungs taking in and expelling air is all she can hear. It reminds her a bit of the ocean—the way the water sounds as it pushes and drags against the shore.

"You do not need to apologize to me. You have _nothing_ to apologize for. God, Mary… I was so out of line. I'm the one who should be apologizing." If she was looking at him, she would see how frantic he appears-his eyes unable to focus, his shoulders slumped forward, his hands clenched firmly against his knees.

"If I hadn't pushed you...if I hadn't..." He is stuttering, unable to steady his breath.

"If I hadn't said those things, none of this would have happened."

He says it with conviction, but Mary shakes her head.

"No. Let's not blame ourselves."

And when she looks at him, there are tears in her eyes that she has no power to stop. He lays his hand out palm up on the table and she clings to it like a lifeline.

He closes his fingers around hers, and holds her as tightly as she holds him.

Of course he would understand; he's Matthew. He knows her. He _knows her._

She's not sure how long they sit in his kitchen like this, hands held firmly together, quiet except for the sounds of breathing and crying, which seems to come in waves.

When they do eventually move, she insists on taking the couch despite his protests, and falls asleep more quickly than she would have thought possible.

When she wakes it's to the smell of coffee and breakfast, and even though it takes her a moment to remember where she is, she knows that she is safe.

She can hear Matthew moving about in the kitchen—the sounds of eggs frying on the stove, the tick of the toaster, the soft hum of the news on the television.

She's almost reached the kitchen when she hears the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

She rushes in to find Matthew, a trail of coffee stained down his front, broken mug bits surrounding his bare feet, staring blankly at the headline scrolling across the screen.

_Kemal Pamuk Found Dead From Apparent Drug Overdose._


End file.
